


Well I've heard there was a secret chord

by Cheesecloth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aromantic, Asexuality, Aziraphale the known hedonist, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Apocalypse, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), they're both AceAro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheesecloth/pseuds/Cheesecloth
Summary: Aziraphale's regular barber is out of town.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 105





	Well I've heard there was a secret chord

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheerios_and_wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerios_and_wine/gifts).



> I have always wanted to write a gift work for someone! I didn't quite know how to tailor it directly to you, though, so I did the next best thing and wrote self-indulgently. Hope you like fluff! Lol
> 
> Also! This means I've finally finished the lyrics to the full Hallelujah song! I can finally have different titles, lol!

Aziraphale’s hair of late was growing quite untidy. One may be surprised that he lets his hair grow at all, with the way he fashions himself and the obvious, glaring fact that he is an angel and therefore does not adhere to human laws of nature. And it was so. He did not grow his hair, for there was no need to.

Until, of course, he attended a barbershop. It was borderline magical. The light, styled touch of the barber’s scissors…the oddly comforting routine of wash, dry, and snip…the gossip that was frankly too easy to overhear from the other customers and busy barbers. To a hedonist like Aziraphale, it was catnip.

So Aziraphale grew out his hair.

It was only a little, anyway. He attended the barbershop often. Almost every month since the early 1800s. He’d alternate to different shops once his immortal consumerism began to be suspicious.

It was quite a treat.

He’d settle in at a chair, awaiting his appointment while reading one of his books. Of course, he’d only bring new books to page through, as one never wants to ruin a precious first edition with an accidental spill of tea. When he’s called upon by a smiling barber, he nearly skips in excitement as he bounds over to the wash.

Angels aren’t very close to one another. They may sing with one another in heavenly choir, but they never touch. It’s, for some reason, unmannerly. Touch is a precious thing, and angels are quite starved of it.

Aziraphale ordered a wash every time. It was quite easily the best part of getting a hair cut. The barber’s fingers would card through his curled white hair, and he’d melt like butter. And he would always pointedly ignore the pitiful, sad look the barbers always gave him by closing his eyes and letting himself drift away with the sensation. Every point of essence in him would focus so completely at the hands massaging his scalp, and it would sent waves of curious joy and gooseflesh through him.

When drying his hair, he’d sigh forlornly, but he’s still quite as eager to follow the barber to the snipping chair. Watching the barber tousle his hair neatly and trim the curled strands through the mirror was mesmerizing. As an angel, humans found him quite an easy person to vent to. They’d tell him their troubles, and they’d miraculously find themselves in better situations afterward. It was a habit, at this point. But he has a special fondness for barbers. He’s quite purposeful with miracling joy into their life.

And perhaps they know it. Perhaps they knew he’s not quite human. They never fail to wave him goodbye with hearty smiles and hope in their tired eyes.

Aziraphale sighs as he walks up to the door of his current favorite establishment, only to find it closed for the day. He absentmindedly blesses it.

_Oh how dreadful_ , he thinks. He’d specifically gotten today off just so he could get his monthly trim. He fingers the loose curls that a just a tad bit longer than he likes. He adjusts his coat and takes a bus or two back to the Dowling residence.

He was quite looking forward to that haircut. His new favorite barber, Mel, had a very interesting story that they were going to finish telling him, and he felt sorry to miss it.

Aziraphale miracles his disguise back on for a moment and makes his way to the spare cottage. He looks longingly at the calendar pinned to the fridge and squeaks.

“My goodness! I got the date wrong!”

There’s a crashing sound, and Crowley, clad in his usual fashion, strolls casually into the small kitchen.

“Something wrong, angel?”

Aziraphale knows he’s pouting, but he can’t help it. He points to the calendar. “It’s a holiday today! Oh no wonder they were closed! I got time off for the wrong day!”

Crowley peers from behind his shades at the calendar gifted to him by one of the maids smitten with the nanny. “What’s been closed?”

“Oh, the barbershop.” Aziraphale sits glumly at the table, nursing a tea that wasn’t there before.

“Closed…? Ah, you mean the one a few blocks away from your shop?” Crowley guesses.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

Crowley blankly watches Aziraphale sip his tea.

“Angel,” Crowley drawls, “You do know that not every shop celebrates this holiday, yeah? There’s bound to be another barbershop available.”

“I’m aware, my dear. However, I have, er, a contrivance concerning the many shops and whether or not I can go to them. I’m keeping them in rotation. Why, the one shop down in London is absolutely off-limits. I would certainly stir up suspicion if they saw me again so soon.”

Crowley took this in with ease. He had his own strategy for avoiding suspicions. Of course, some establishments wouldn’t allow Crowley back in if he tried. Except for one in Melbourne. He has no idea what their breaking point is, but bless it all, he’ll find it.

“Why not just miracle your hair to the way you like it then?”

Aziraphale sputters, and he glares up at his devious friend.

“I simply cannot! Gabriel would send a very stern note on my ‘frivolous miracle’,” Aziraphale points out passionately, completely missing Crowley glancing at the angel’s tea, “And besides, I wouldn’t grow my hair at all if I didn’t have a point to it!”

“Okay.” He says.

Aziraphale gave his most indignant pout, shimmies a little in vexation, and drinks heartily from his tea.

“Okay,” Crowley repeats, but a bit more slowly.

“Okay, what?”

“I have an idea.” Crowley says. “Why don’t I trim your hair?” Aziraphale makes a quick movement as though he is about to give many reasons why they shouldn’t, but Crowley is quicker. “I’m immortal too, angel. I’ve learned a lot in my many years. Including how to properly trim hair. Used to be a hairstylist, y’know, when I was working a job down in Paris. I got a commendation for it.”

“Am I to be wary of what hellish deed you got a commendation for,” Aziraphale murmurs haughtily.

“Styling, if you wanted to know. I got a commendation from my human employers in the barbershop for inventing new styles. I was very sought after for my talent.”

The angel gives it a long thought. He sips the last of his tea while Crowley squirms in wait for an answer. He supposes he really did feel upset about getting the date wrong, and missing what could have been yet another fantastic appointment. He…yearns for that rhythmic touch in his hair. If it were Crowley washing his hair… A strange shiver of anticipation shakes through Aziraphale.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says slowly. “But only if you promise you’ll be civil.”

Crowley makes a complicated gesture in front of his chest, and Aziraphale narrows his eyes.

“On my honor, angel.”

He snaps his fingers and there’s suddenly a wash bin next to him, with a lovely plush chair in front of it. Crowley gestures to it and Aziraphale sits cautiously before leaning his head back into the bin.

Out of the corner of his widely open eyes, he watches Crowley snap into a fancy outfit that only somewhat resembles a barber’s. He places his glasses down and readies a familiar shampoo. It’s not Aziraphale’s.

The angel finds himself tense as Crowley approaches him.

“Let’s start with a wash,” he says leisurely.

Aziraphale startles at the sudden light touch of a too-long nail at his neck. It’s soon replaced with the feeling of a sinfully soft towel, and he relaxes. The hands at his neck tuck the towel neatly around him and turn on the faucet.

The rush of water is a calming pavlovian sound, and Aziraphale finds himself melting already. He tingles with anticipation.

The first touch to his scalp makes him sigh imperceptibly. There’s nothing quite as intoxicating as this sensation. The nails are gentle, and they create a feeling unlike any other as they glide through his curls and scrape very lightly at his scalp. He relishes the shiver it sends him into.

Aziraphale opens his eyes in a way he never does.

Crowley’s staring at him with his own wide, yellow-stretched eyes. His expression is both fond and awed.

Aziraphale feels the pads of Crowley’s fingers apply steady pressure to his jaw and turn his head slowly so the water would soak through his hair better. It was a professional endeavor, but the way Crowley stares into his eyes as he touches him steals his breath.

The intimacy is magnetizing. Aziraphale could feel the waves of it buzz through him like a resounding ripple through water.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice is small.

The angel hums a note of pleasure in response.

“Do you not…do angels not…touch anymore?”

Aziraphale’s corporation freezes.

“It’s just…I know what you’re doing. Is this why you go to a barber so much? You told me once, that you go every _month_. That’s a lot, for an immortal being.”

“It is,” Aziraphale breaths. He turns his face away in shame, but Crowley’s light touch is back at his jaw. He can’t find the air to protest when he’s turned back to face the demon.

“Demons touch a lot. We’re overcrowded,” Crowley explains. He puts a hand in Aziraphale’s hair again and is amazed to watch the angel melt against him. “We pile against each other. ‘Specially the reptile ones. Huddling for warmth. Touching is a regular occurrence for us.”

“Then how could you know?” Aziraphale’s voice cracks.

Crowley leans close. His yellow eyes searching Aziraphale’s with a sadness in them. “I’ve known a lot of humans, like you have. And the eras change quickly. One moment, everyone’s comfortable with touching one another. The next, everyone’s touch starved. Angel we never even hug. We-“ Crowley’s eyes are troubled now, and he grimaces. “I’m your friend. I should have done more.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, heart full of ceaseless emotion. “You have no idea how much you’ve done for me already!”

Crowley’s forehead finally leans forward enough to touch Aziraphale’s, and the angel is immediately slack and boneless against him. They steadily breathe each other in for what feels like long minutes. Aziraphale will treasure it forever.

“See?” Aziraphale whispers. “It does not matter what you haven’t done, because I remember all the things you have done, even if you don’t. You are _everything_ more than what you think you lack.”

Crowley’s eyes uncharacteristically close, and he huffs a laugh. When they open again, they’re watery, in a way Aziraphale hasn’t seen in a long time. Crowley smiles. “I meant cuddling, angel.”

They both dissolve into soft laughter while they hold each other dearly against them.

“I am more than amenable to cuddling,” Aziraphale says. His eyelashes flutter at how close they still are. His body is filled with an unfamiliar but very pleasant warmth of satisfaction. To him, there is no greater intimacy than being able to freely hold and be held by the only being he loves and cherishes more than anything. The unadulterated _love_ he has for Crowley bleeds out of him like a waterfall.

“Good, good, er, great!” Crowley’s voice is choked by the ghostly sensation of it. Just as starved for it as Aziraphale is for touch.

And just like that, Crowley fully relaxes against Aziraphale. Crushing him just a little bit. But it’s a perfect feeling, so Aziraphale doesn’t breathe a word.

They rest like that for a decade in a second, before Crowley snorts.

“Oh, right, your hair’s going to dry weird if I don’t tend to it now. Still want that hair trim?”

“I’m starting to realize that it’ll be strange,” Aziraphale says, “to have a change in barber after my last appointment. You see, usually, you make an appointment with the same barber, so they’d have a continuous base of style to work from.”

“Ah.” Crowley sounds disappointed. “Yeah, I know that. Was a hairstylist in Paris, remember?”

“Yes, exactly. Which is why I’d like to ask if you’d be my barber?”

The room is silent.

“You cunning bastard,” Crowley grins.

**Author's Note:**

> okay, I couldn't help it! the Melbourne bit is from an Onion meme about Michael Caine because it just reminded me of Crowley so much  
> here's the quote: 
> 
> "Every major city has banned me from using their public transit system except Melbourne, Australia. I have no idea what their breaking point is, but mark my words, I'll fucking find it!" 
> 
> let me tell u, i am absolutely feral when it comes to that line. it kills me every time   
> and i just had to highlight it in the End Notes 
> 
> hope you had a lovely read! thank you!!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Well I've heard there was a secret chord by Cheesecloth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182149) by [TheLordOfLaMancha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLordOfLaMancha/pseuds/TheLordOfLaMancha)




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